His eyes Lightning strikes behind those damned irises, dilated pupils pull me toward pitch darkness. Sharp as a razor, cutting my heartline little by little.
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His scent was the afterstorm, butter cake dipped in bitter coffee. Childlike laughter hides his wicked smile, curious, questioning my old book filled with insanity.
Trespassed, like sands through the hourglass, spilling his dark ink onto my colorful art. After the pages were torn apart, like butterfly wings ripped by the harsh wind, his storm suddenly came from within.
